


Now You're Gone...

by alexudinovs



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 2x16 spoilers, Bellarke, Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 18:18:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3539291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexudinovs/pseuds/alexudinovs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once Bellamy had finally emerged from Mount Weather, he thought this might be a new beginning. With one less threat and the forty-seven reunited - for the most part - it seemed inevitable. But, for Clarke, it couldn't be so.</p><p>The Goodbye scene from 2x16 basically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now You're Gone...

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely sure where this is going yet, but after that goodbye scene, I just had to write it and insert what I thought each of them might have been thinking at those points.
> 
> Sorry if you disagree.
> 
> Also, I hope the switch between POVs isn't too confusing!
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :)

As Camp Jaha came into view, Clarke had been hanging back, slowing down as the rest of the group surged forward, the long march growing easier with the promise of _home_ after months of being locked away and living on the edge. And, with any luck, she might have slipped by unnoticed. If it weren’t for Bellamy.

 _He_ had noticed.

The strange mix of elation and the dull ache of their actions left him staring up at the camp, watching as those who had returned made their sombre way back.

They had made it. The forty-seven—or what was _left_ of them—were safe, now.

The Mountain Men were gone.

But they had lost people too. That fact hung over them, over Bellamy and, as he glanced back at her for what felt like the millionth time, Clarke too. He could see it in her eyes, the set of her jaw, the furrow of her eyebrows in the sunlight.

Yet there was a happiness—rather, a _relief_ —for him, too. Against all odds, they had made it.

“I think we deserve a drink.”

Bellamy spoke as he turned back to Clarke, once the last of their people were safely within Camp Jaha’s walls, ever conscious of the way she had not made an effort to go further. He understood. Their decision had been a hard one, but it was something they could reconcile themselves with over time and right now? It was a time to celebrate. Or, at the very _least_ , remember those they had lost. Take a moment to recuperate. To relieve the tension which had become second nature to him after so much time in the mountain, with the threat of being found and killed lingering every second of every day.

He thought Clarke would have agreed.

“Have one for me.”

She spoke without faltering, a surprise even for herself, though she avoided looking at Bellamy. If she _did_ , well, she just could have changed her mind. So, she kept her gaze on the camp, finding Jasper first, the memory of his expression when they had found him engraved in her mind.

He would never forgive her.

She didn’t want him to.

“We can get through this.”

How could he be sure? There was no coming back from the number of people she had let die, or murdered by her own hand. The missile in TonDC. The radiation in Mount Weather. Countless other lives she could never bring back. Why _should_ she come back from this? Did she deserve to?

“I’m not going in.”

She remembered Octavia’s words: _you’re not trying hard enough._ Raven’s frustration. Jasper’s grief. Finn’s last ‘I love you’ when she took his life. Her mother, in the wake of TonDC: _tell me you didn’t know._

Clarke had put on a brave face because she had to. Because she didn’t deserve to feel otherwise. Yet she didn’t deserve to walk among them, as if she wasn’t the reason they were all broken and lost. That she wasn’t the reason so many had died.

“ _Clarke_ … if you need forgiveness, I’ll give that to you.”

He had turned towards her now, half hoping that she would understand that _he_ understood. Bellamy could relate to her, even if no one else could. They were leaders. They made sacrifices, did things that no one could truly conceive but them.

And, as her gaze met his, he hoped that he was getting through to her. Whatever she thought, they had done _this_ together.

“You’re forgiven.”

Even if he had stolen the words from her, he meant them.

His jaw locked as her face turned away, stepping to the side to meet her gaze once more.

“ _Please_ , come inside.”

Would it be enough that he asked? That she had one person on her side that she could count on?

No. It wasn’t.

She had changed. The Clarke he knew was gone. The Clarke _they_ knew was gone. His forgiveness could not save her from herself. And, besides all that, it was lip-service, an appeal to get her to stay. And for what? As a sign of what she had taken away from these people whom she loved? They deserved to grieve and mourn without the symbol of their pain everywhere they turned.

Clarke shot President Wallace, when she could have used him as a bargaining chip. She ignored Bellamy’s pleas, to exercise a power trip which left her mother on a poor excuse for an operating table, tied down and helpless as her bone marrow was stolen from her. There must have been a way to prevent that.

Either way, it was too late.

“Take care of them for me.”

She was the head. He was the heart. They needed _him_.

“Clarke—”

He understood, she _knew_ he did. So, why wouldn’t he just stop?

“No—seeing their faces every day is just gonna remind me of what I did to get them here.”

Seeing her face would be no easier for them.

“What _we_ did. You don’t have to do this alone.”

That was the point, _wasn’t it?_ She _had_ done this alone. She had forged an alliance with Lexa, she had almost gotten Bellamy killed, she _had_ gotten many others killed. And now, she was done.

She turned away, her eyes glassing over despite herself as she tried to focus on the camp in front of them. Filled with people she had hurt, one way or another. People who would be better off without her. _They_ were the reason she had to go.

Bellamy could never convince her otherwise.

“I bear it, so they don’t have to.”

The words no longer sounded as bitter as they had when Dante had spoken them, an understanding dawning on her. Clarke wished she didn’t understand.

But even _she_ could detect the hint of weakness in her tone, the closing of her throat as she swallowed past the first three words, struggling to meet Bellamy’s gaze.

_Stay strong, Clarke._

“Where are you gonna go?”

Ah. He _did_ understand.

Yet, the turn of his head, the furrow of his brow, the thickness in his voice… he had accepted it, but he didn’t want to.

And, with every second that passed, it became obvious that her resolve to remain strong was faltering. She had thought this through, sure, but there had only been so much she could take to avoid suspicion, on the journey back to Camp Jaha. Whatever she did, wherever she _went_ , wouldn’t be easy.

Not that she deserved easy.

“I don’t know.”

The words slurred together as she fought not to cry.

As much as she had fooled herself into believing he would not care, either, here he was: undoing everything she had allowed herself to believe. _He cared._ He would miss her, even if no one else would. Hell, he had noticed that she was gone before she’d even _left._

She hoped he would have that drink for her.

His expression, that same emotion she felt constricting her throat, forcing her to blink before any tears could fall, made her want to speak. But what could she say?

Before she could consider her actions, caught in a rare moment of vulnerability and a self-assuredness that there was every chance she might not see him again, she stepped forwards, her lips meeting his cheek. It was rough, against her lips, but not unpleasant. She forced herself to forget that. _This was goodbye._

“May we meet again.”

Those words had held promise when he had left for the mountain. Promise of success, of hard work, of her unending faith that he would get the job done. But now…

It was all Bellamy could do not to cling to her, the softness of her lips against his cheek leaving their mark, surprise and sadness and the desire to make her see that what she thought was right was _wrong._ But all he did was let her hug him, his tongue burning with unspoken words. Of their friendship. Of what they meant to each other. Co-leaders, who had fallen into the roles, fallen into an uneasy relationship which had grown more natural with each passing day. _She didn’t have to leave._

_He could carry her._

Bellamy could throw her over his shoulder and carry her into camp, tell them to close the gates and not to let her leave. It would only be too easy. She was pretty light. And, by the time she thought about leaving again—leaving _him_ —she would change her mind. Figure out that they were better together.

But, before he could do so, she had pulled away, the weight of her hand on his back and her chin on his shoulder lingering even as they looked at each other. And then she was turning, the opportunity gone forever.

“May we meet again.”

He had hoped she might have turned back, to remember, for one last time, what she was leaving. _Who_ she was leaving. If not him, then Octavia, or Raven. Bellamy didn’t know what had been said, how things had changed while he was in the mountain.

She didn’t turn back.

So, he didn’t call her name, or tell her that she was making a mistake. It, he was beginning to realise, was no longer his place.

Instead, he turned back to camp, hiking his gun sling higher on his shoulder as he walked over the uneven ground, praying no one would ask him where Clarke was. He couldn’t say. Not without those drinks. And definitely not so soon.

Not only because the thought wrenched at him but because she deserved her headstart. If this was what she needed, he wouldn’t stand in her way. He wouldn’t give someone else a chance to stop her. Not if she was ever going to come back.

_If—_

No. She _would_ come back.

He needed that drink.


End file.
